


Our Gravestones Say BRB Instead of RIP

by ashilrak



Series: 177(6) [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 177(6) verse, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-07-15 08:52:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 19,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7215802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashilrak/pseuds/ashilrak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion piece/prequel of sorts to my 177(6) group chat series</p><p>"Now, Lizzie lived her life as normal as could be. Ultimately, the weirdest effects of her past life on her modern one were an oddly specific knowledge of American history, and a tendency to pay for everything in ten dollar bills."</p><p>"But no, the first thing he remembered was a man (someone who he now knows to be his father) wearing a bright gold coat slip on some ice and fall in the middle of the street, and the rant about new york winters that followed it."</p><p>"Today was the day he was going to put the past behind him. The resolve straightening his spine was familiar; comforting - the caress of an old lover. He would be better than he once was. He had been a cheating scoundrel, a truly terrible human being who put himself and his reputation before all else."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Very Model of a Modern Major General

**Author's Note:**

> So I've talked with a couple of people who have commented on the story about potentially doing a thing in a more traditional narration about the hamilsquad remembering their past lives, so here it is.
> 
> Reincarnation is normal in this verse
> 
> You do not need to read the rest of 177(6) to understand this

George Warner was a late bloomer. Not in the physical sense, but in that he had yet to experience his revelation. He was 19 years old, and he still didn’t know who he was. His parents had entertained the idea of him being a new soul, but too many of his mannerisms were too...dated. 

And who automatically turned around when he heard the word excellency. He did apparently, and he didn’t hear the end of that one for weeks.

He wasn’t that bothered not knowing, there was something peaceful about it. After all, he didn’t have a legacy to live up to. Chances were he was nobody important - in the millions of people that have lived, history only remembered a handful of names.

From a young age George had been a leader. Captain of the football team, student body president, counselor at the city run summer camp; it just made sense to him. He wasn’t made to follow, and it was something he felt deep in his bones. 

His parents had encouraged him to study business in college, saying that he had the charisma necessary to become someone important in a company. Frankly, George didn’t know what he wanted to be, and while business didn’t exactly call his name, it didn’t repulse him either. 

Unfortunately, you had to take more than just leadership classes to get a college degree. 

It was during his history class. He had ended up in a class about the american revolution because he figured that learning it for the hundredth time wouldn’t kill him, and it happened to fit in his schedule.  
The funny thing about classes with basic subject matter, is that oftentimes, it’s just assumed you know certain facts. George had never actually learned all that much about the founding fathers; people just assumed he already knew everything, and whenever he was told something, there was always a voice in the back of his head saying that it was wrong.

It was during one of his lectures in his history class that their professor got sick of everyone not paying attention. 

“Everybody, eyes here.” Their teacher was a very quiet man, and having him speak with any sort of energy was frankly startling enough to grab their attention.

“Since none of you seem to care how the country you are living in was founded, I am going to give you a test of sorts.”

This of course was met with a wave of groans. George remained silent. He was interested, some part of him knew that there was going to be more to this than what met the eye.

“I am going to pull each of down here with me at random points, and I am going to give you the name of a historical figure. You will do you best to tell me something that person did, and I’ll give you extra credit for quoting them, or acting out a scene that somehow applies. Now, any volunteers?”

No one raised their hands, but one girl did blurt out, “Don’t some people have advantages, like if they knew who you’re asking about in a past life or something”

The professor just laughed, and said, “and that’s when it starts getting fun”

Most were boring, getting a few laughs at most. After all, everyone knew that Sam Adams was the brand of a beer, and that Paul Revere was very obviously the man who went around screaming “The British are coming” 

Before he knew it, George was called down. He stood in the middle of the room, and just like every other day of his life, he felt empowered by the eyes directed at him rather than bothered. There was always something that made him stand taller, more proud, when being watched. 

The professor, he really was a very short man, stood in front of him. 

“Now, Mr. Warner, I want you to be...Aaron Burr.”

George didn’t know who that was, but before he could stop himself he was laughing. “Sir, excuse me, but Aaron Burr? What have I done to deserve this? Why is he even mentioned, how did Mr. “Never do today what can be put off till tomorrow” ever amount to anything in history?”

The professor was amused, but George was only confused. 

“Why, Mr. Warner, what has Aaron Burr ever done to you? But if you really must know, Burr is most famous for killing Alexander Hamilton in a duel. And for never becoming president.”

“What could Alexander have possibly done to make Burr feel enough anger to actually shoot him?”

The professor was openly grinning, and asked, “I didn’t realize you were on a first name basis with the first treasury secretary of the United States, Mr. Warner.”

George was only even more confused now, but the back of his mind was whirring. He had always had dreams of a war, but that was so common that he never questioned it. Suddenly, his mind was filled with the image of a short, frazzled looking kid hunched over a desk muttering angrily. He remembered writing letters, he remembers sitting in bed while the doctor let his blood. The smell of gunpowder and blood, and the feeling of hands in his. He remembers hearing mutterings of french in a tent accompanying the sound of a quill scratching. 

The people around him, always looking to him for an answer. The hunger pangs he hid so that his soldier wouldn’t see their general in such discomfort. The morale had already been so low, the last thing they needed was their last source of hope beaten down by the same pains they all faced. After all, he was their general, and he needed to lead by example.

Wait.

What the fuck.

He quickly focused in on the scene around him. The professor was still in front him, grinning wildly, his classmate watching, faces a mixture of boredom and confusion. 

“Are you going to answer my question, George?”

“What?”

“Why did you refer to Alexander Hamilton by his first name?”

“Because he had made it an art form of conveniently not hearing his last name when spoken in anger.”

“I don’t remember reading that anywhere, Mr. Warner.”

“Neither do I.”

“So, Mr. Warner, who were you?”

George shook his head, “somehow I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

“No, I’m very sure I would. After all, you have a very distinctive walk, General.”

He was shocked, but the glint in the other man’s eyes was somehow familiar; reminded him of parties thrown in times where such revelry was all too rare.

“Friedrich?”

He suddenly had two hands on his arms, and his professor, and previous friend of sorts, laughing in front of him.

“No but seriously Friedrich, why are you so short?”


	2. Best of Wives and Best of Women

Eliza had never not known. She might not have remembered every single detail - which was probably for the better. But she always knew deep down who she was. She was the middle sister, the best of wives and of women, she was a mother, she started an orphanage, she spent fifty years of her life in mourning for a man who broke her heart.

She had spent so long letting her life be ruled by a man who wasn’t there when she needed him, and it was time to stop.

That is the day she decided to go by Lizzie. 

Now, Lizzie lived her life as normal as could be. Ultimately, the weirdest effects of her past life on her modern one were an oddly specific knowledge of American history, and a tendency to pay for everything in ten dollar bills. 

She baked every Monday night for her friends and family, because while Mondays were terrible, Tuesdays somehow always managed to be worse. She loved her parents, even though they weren’t the same from before. It was actually a not-so-small miracle that she managed to keep two of her sisters by her side.

She coddled them sometimes. Whenever they showed the slightest sign of discomfort or illness, she was the one that hovered over them and held their hand while they slept. 

She had seen them both go before their time, and while she logically was aware that a bout of flu wasn’t going to mean their death, she allowed herself to get the slightest bit irrational in regards to their safety and general state of being.

As she got older, she remembered more. She remembered the pain of childbirth the first time she got her period, and she remembered the glint of candlelight in Alexander’s eyes on their wedding night moments after she had her first kiss.

Lizzie would walk through the park with her family, and watch the children run around with the oddest expression on her face. Her mother had asked her about it once.

“Elizabeth darling, why do you always looks so sad?”

She had smiled, and shook her head, “Oh, it’s nothing. It’s just that sometimes I get flashes of the life I lived before, you know?”

She had grown quite careful in her words, had long ago figured out how to give away enough information to comfort, but not too much as to cause worry.

She never did take those piano lessons her dad always talked about after hearing from someone that practicing music daily improved intelligence.

There’d be times where she could go weeks without a worry beyond those of the typical teenager. She allowed herself to revel in youth once more. 

It was easy to force herself to live without thinking of someone when you hardly see any sign of them; not that they weren’t there, she just blinded herself to them. When people questioned her tendency to use tens, she just said she liked even numbers. She had gotten quite good at lying to both herself and others over the years.

And then Angelica remembered and she wasn’t able to lie anymore.

She let the memories that she had somehow held at bay flood her sense once more, for fear that something might catch her off guard. It was much easier to cry to herself at night than it was to do so in broad daylight and pass it off like nothing was wrong.

There were still those she hid though - the nights of passion, the spark of passion at the beginning of their love affair. Emotions were easier to resist, love could be put towards other things. You could hurt someone out of love, after all. But combined with that instant spark, the lust, it was simply undeniable.

When her father asked her who she was over dinner one night, she had simply replied with “An army wife during the revolutionary war.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it was far from the full truth.

The truth was something that Lizzie had to force herself to face.

She had been truly, madly, deeply in love with Alexander Hamilton. He had been beautiful, in so many ways. He was a light, and she had been a moth unable to keep herself back from the flame. And like a light, Alexander burned fast and bright, and she had stayed to watch and get burned.

Eliza Hamilton had let herself be defined by a man, but in doing that she had somehow defined herself. She had made her own mark on history in her attempt to preserve her husband’s. 

It took a special kind of woman to leave such a large mark on history, yet to do so quietly that her hard work just managed to somehow slip its way into the history book and be accepted as part of the american academic canon

That was the kind of woman that Lizzie Skylar strived to be. 

Now if that determination would be able to stand up in the face of her Hamilton, she does not know. It is that thought and possibility that terrifies her.

She was once known as the last standing revolutionary war widow.

Lizzie was an independent woman. 

She had outlived them all before, and she was perfectly capable of doing again. 

She just wasn’t sure if she would want to. 

Would she meet him again, her sweetest Alexander. The man who was simultaneously the best and worst thing in her life. So strong, he had the power to build and crush nations, but he was prideful. He had only himself for so long, that he didn’t know how to live any other way. That very behavior was his ruin. And Eliza wasn’t sure she could survive another fall.

As the memories she had forced away for so long came rushing back, she realized that she was sure she could not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I know that some of you are probably like "whytf is she all over alex then" I've decided to give eliza character depth fuckign sue me
> 
> <3 <3 <3
> 
> Let me know what you think!!!


	3. Gonna Blow Us All Away

Philip’s life was pretty great. His parents loved him, and his best friend lived next door. He was only five years old, but some part of him felt like he was older.

He knew that was because he had lived a life before. His parents had told him how they had always lived in the islands, and that this was their favorite time to be there. The island was great; the weather was always nice, and his parents always took him and his neighbor’s son, Alex, to the beach.

He doesn’t remember that much from when he was that young, but he does remember the day his parents told him they were moving. They felt that he’d have more opportunities and a better education in the United States, and that it’d be better for him if they moved when he was still young. 

Philip was eighteen now, and just about to go off to college. He no longer lived in Christiansted, but instead in New York. He remembered being sad as a kid when they moved, and not fully understanding why. He was thankful now, it was much easier to move somewhere new when your memories of your first home were so faint. The only reminder he had was his accent that became more pronounced the angrier he was - he wasn’t sure why he had kept it, but it might have something to do with his parents still having it.

Eighteen was a weird age.

Not because of the transition of college or anything, but because this was going to be the last year he remembered living before; the consequence of dying young, he supposes. He remembers remembering, it had happened after dinner one day when he was about ten years old. His parents had gotten a little wine-drunk, and had started going on about how much they missed living on the island, and how cold it got in New York during winter.

Most people remembered because of something interesting - a particularly traumatic event of their past life being brought to mind because of an action movie or something. It was either funny or completely terrible to watch a soldier get a revelation - and it was something that happened way too often during history classes. 

But no, the first thing he remembered was a man (someone who he now knows to be his father) wearing a bright gold coat slip on some ice and fall in the middle of the street, and the rant about new york winters that followed it.

His parent had been worried, of course - he had that look about him, and they immediately wanted to know what he remembered. Unfortunately he didn’t have that much to go off of, and in the end they all went to bed feeling quite unsatisfied in regards to knowing who he once was.

The memories trickled in slowly after that, as they are wont to do. He’d get an image of a street busy with horses and women with bustles, young children running through a parlor, a group of pretty girls smiling his way, and his mother saying grace before dinner. 

It had taken two years for him to register enough details to figure out who he was, who his family was. 

His first reaction had been a sort of odd pride and joy at knowing he had lived his first five years in the same town his father had grown up in, all those years ago. His second reaction was to think it odd that he knew more about his life and self as Philip Hamilton than he did as Philip Hayler. He had died young, and apparently 7 years can make a difference in how well you know yourself.

It had been difficult to face his parents after coming to the realization that he didn’t truly know who he put in a higher regard; his parents now, or his parents from before. They had been so understanding, and it was with that knowledge that Philip allowed his life to move on without being held back by his past life. That didn’t stop him from being influenced by it though.

While scientists still might not have figured out the whole nature v. nurture thing, there was definitely an element of truth to the idea of a disposition changing due to new memories. Philip had once been a peaceful child, shy, and never one to get into an argument. Needless to say, that didn’t last very long after he remembered his father telling their family over dinner how he had challenged an entire political party to a duel.

But packing for college, now was the time to truly start focusing on who he wanted to be and what he wanted to do with his time now. The biggest thing he had learned from his memories of his father was how important it was to work hard, be determined, and never stop going after what you want. His parents never would have been able to afford tuition without his scholarships, and there was a certain sense of satisfaction knowing he was there on his own merit.

He had a couple goals for school: make friends, get involved, and maintain a decent GPA. Truly, the only one he was worried about was the first one. He had always had difficulty making friends - most thought it weird how vividly he remembered everything from before, and how much he was still shaped by it. Kids didn’t understand, but that was fine. It had helped him become a stronger person in the long run - it was much easier to put your all into an argument when you didn’t have to worry about people’s opinions.

Most of his time was spent worrying over if he had the right clothes, everything he needed for his dorm, and whether or not he’d be able to handle the workload - normal problems for someone about the go through the transition between high school.

Sometimes though, there’d be nights where he’d lie wide awake and want nothing more than to hug his mother and see his father smile again. Not his parents lying in a room down the hall, but the pair that he’d most likely never see in this life. People tended to reincarnate by generation - scientists had a theory that there were between three and five generations that were cycled. There were of course the few oddballs, but that wasn’t enough to hope for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry to say that this particular segment is going to be a bit more slow-going, as I'm sure you've already noticed. 
> 
> I have a lot of head-canons for Philip's background for this series, and I know some of it is a bid cliched or whatever, but I don't even care. 
> 
> I'm currently visiting family out of state, so I most likely won't be able to post anything again until Monday at the earliest. I didn't expect to be able to find time to write this, but obviously I have, so you might find something else updating sooner rather than later :-)
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed! Tell me what you think! I literally live for the comments, haha
> 
> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


	4. Ten Dollar Founding Father Without A Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But that needed to change, and it needed to change now. 
> 
> Today was the day he was going to put the past behind him. The resolve straightening his spine was familiar; comforting - the caress of an old lover. He would be better than he once was. He had been a cheating scoundrel, a truly terrible human being who put himself and his reputation before all else. 
> 
> This was his second chance.

The clock kept ticking and ticking, and Alex was running out of time. 

He wasn’t finished with the essay. He didn’t know where the words were coming from, or why he was so fucking incensed over the idea of a jeffersonian agrarian economy, but here he was three pages later with his teacher glaring at him, and he still wasn’t done.

The bell rang. He dropped his pen, turned in his test, and walked out the door.

He got his test back a week later the only thing remarkable about it was the comments on his essay. There were of course the usual ones sniping at his tendency to write much more than necessary, but more than that, there was quip: “My my, Alexander, this essay of yours seems awfully Hamiltonian” written in red ink.

So, he did what any other kid might have done, he googled it.

There was something about it that struck a chord in him, and his mom used to always say that there was something in him that spoke of a much different time. Mind you, that didn’t necessarily make him unique, but there were feelings you just couldn’t shake.

And then of course there was the fact that the word “hamiltonian” was obviously based off some guy’s name - and really, what guy did enough to warrant a word in the english language dedicated to them. 

Apparently both Sir W.R. Hamilton and Alexander Hamilton did.

It would make sense to look into the histories of both men, spending equal time on each one. However, Alex wasn’t about to spend time on some random math guy when he could look up a guy with his name. If he wanted to argue his point, his history teacher wouldn’t have made a remark in reference to a math guy on a paper about Thomas Jefferson’s policy.

Honestly though, fuck that guy. There was something about Jefferson that had always rubbed him the wrong way. Like really though, who went out of their way to ruin someone’s life just because. Jefferson KNEW that the country had to industrialize, yet he always went on and on about the farmers. And then he sent the fucking letters, why the fuck would he do that. Simply to piss him off, that why. 

Wait.

What.  
He needed to write this down.

The written word was the one thing he had always been able to fall back on. He wrote his way out of St. Croix, he wrote his way to revolution, and he had also written his own ruin. Writing down the memories flashing into his mind was nothing in comparison. 

Alexander Hamilton was born in Nevis to Rachel Faucette and James Hamilton.  
Alexander Miller was born in Christiansted, St. Croix to Suzanne and Javier Miller.

Alexander Hamilton’s father left, and his mother died when he was twelve.  
Alexander Miller’s parents were happily married, but died in a hurricane.

Hurricane. Hurricane. Hurricane.

He was once a hurricane.

What was he now? A small ocean breeze? Less destruction, assuredly, but less impact over all. He was once obsessed with the idea of a legacy - did that even matter? Who really knew about Alexander Hamilton, about the life he lived. Sure he was on the money, but what did that really mean?

Betsey had always tried to tell him he was lucky to even be alive.

Betsey. Oh, his darling wife. He had hurt her in so, so many ways. What was her legacy? Did people know the name Elizabeth Hamilton? They should. But she had never been worried about that sort of thing - no, she was much more focused on enjoying life as it was, enjoying the people around her, and the experiences.

He could have learned so much from her if he had just stayed still and paid attention.

Alexander Hamilton had always been looking forward. He wrote the federalist papers because the constitution needed the support of the people to have any lasting effect. He drafted the financial plan because America needed to stay strong. He wrote the reynolds pamphlet so that he wouldn’t go down in history as a fraud.

Instead he went down as the man who was a part of America’s first sex scandal; nice reputation, that.

Oh his dear Betsey, how that must have ruined her.

Why is it that these things only occur to him after the fact. Foresight had never been his gift.

But that needed to change, and it needed to change now. 

Today was the day he was going to put the past behind him. The resolve straightening his spine was familiar; comforting - the caress of an old lover. He would be better than he once was. He had been a cheating scoundrel, a truly terrible human being who put himself and his reputation before all else. 

This was his second chance.

What he wouldn’t give to see Eliza again; John, Philip, Washington. Oh, the chance to punch Burr in the face would be too good to pass up, because really, who the fuck actually shoots someone at a duel. Right, Aaron Burr and fucking George Eacker.

More memories came rushing in - feelings of pride, despair, hunger, defeat, the joy only found in victory. The brush of his fingers along a silk ball gown, the smell of gunpowder in the air, the sight of ink stains on his finger nails. The sensations that had truly defined his life - all different now.

Even if he were to meet his Betsey and Laurens again, it wouldn’t be the same. They might not even remember. 200 years was an awfully long wait - they’ve probably already returned and passed on. He could pass them on the street, maybe even help them up after they’ve fallen, and move on with his life never knowing what he missed.

He never was meant to be happy, evidently.

But that’s okay, he didn’t need to be happy. He needed to be motivated. He was going to be in America again - the country that he had helped build from the ground up, and he was going to find himself. Not who he was, fucking bastard, but who he could have been. They always say you should learn from your mistakes, Alexander Hamilton had never followed that advice. 

But Alexander Miller, Alexander Miller was willing to try.


	5. A Message From The King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had always craved more. There was something deep within him that had always known he was meant to be more than just some random teenager. But alas, that was all he was now. But before, oh he had to have been someone great; magnificent even. He was the best, and he knew it. Why people didn’t bow when he walked by was honestly still a mystery to him.

Now the Frederickson’s did not consider themselves to be rich, but they couldn’t necessarily be classified as anything below middle-class either. The resided in that comfortable realm Americans referred to as Upper-Middle-Class. What that mean, no one really knew. America prided itself on being a classless society, and that meant a like of definition.

George had always craved that definition. 

He had always craved more. There was something deep within him that had always known he was meant to be more than just some random teenager. But alas, that was all he was now. But before, oh he had to have been someone great; magnificent even. He was the best, and he knew it. Why people didn’t bow when he walked by was honestly still a mystery to him. 

His middle-school drama teacher once told him he had an aura of royalty about him, and she prided herself on being able to sense that sort of thing. It wasn’t a comment that George had forgotten. 

He prided himself on that aura, his innate kingliness, and carried it with him always. Too many times George had been told off for being arrogant, and that he had no reason to act like he was above all of them. But he couldn’t help it, it was who he was. When he was younger he really had tried to ignore the voice in his mind telling him how great he truly was, but he just couldn’t do it.

Who were the people around him to force him to act in such a way?! He was the one in control of his own mind and body; of his own life. Sure, his friends might push themselves away from him, but if they left then they weren’t meant to stay with him to begin with.

His invisible crown might have left him a little lonely, but he accepted it - beauty didn’t come without pain, after all. 

He went through school, never quite having a close bond with anyone his age, but trying hard to not let it get to him. He continued to hide behind his stride and posture, and as more time passed the thicker that shield became. 

He was studying theatre - there was something so glorious about being on stage. The audience able to see and interact, but never quite come close enough to be satisfied. The was something truly enjoyable about being up on that pedestal, being constantly admired. 

His mother had insisted he study something along with his theatre degree, if only as to not seem quite so air-headed. George decided on history, as so many stories took place in the past, it only made sense to have a firmer grasp on the subject. 

Something he had always been bothered by was his lack of revelation. Sure, he knew he must have been someone important, but he didn’t know who - and it left an ache. Most people remembered by the time they graduated highschool - ready to go out into the world with more knowledge and experience under their belts. There were of course the outliers; memories could be triggered, and some people lived such bring lives that they remained clueless until their past moments.

George certainly hadn’t remembered anything yet, but he knew had had to have been someone. The grace he carried so effortlessly took time and training to cultivate, which is why they had teachers to explain just how one should walk and sit while playing certain roles. George had never needed those lessons, so surely that carried over from before? 

Turns out it had, and George had found it in the most unfortunate of ways.

He was in an improv group. Improvisation had never really been his forte, but it was something he had fun doing, and it was good practice for other roles - one might never know when you need to adapt to another actor’s mistake on stage, after all. 

They were acting out a sketch - about a game show host and the three contestants each having a position of for, against, or neutral on the given topic. The point was of course to make it funny, but depending on the topic that didn’t always happen. It wasn’t terribly uncommon for memories to get sparked during these kind of skits. Because of that, the group had always been tighter-knit than one might initially expect.

The topic they were given was “a tea party in Boston” and George’s side was for the topic - nothing too out of the ordinary, really. You see, he had started off normally enough, “Well, tea parties in boston tend to be the most memorable of occasions. It might start off as a group of friends doing some normal party activities, but then they progress and simply become just the best story to tell. And I mean, who doesn't want to be part of a historical party?”

George wasn’t very funny. Or rather, he was completely serious all the time, and people found him hilarious - certainly more of a laughing at him and not with him situation. George had gotten used to it over the years, but for some reason, this time was the final straw. 

“Stop laughing at me, this instant! I have done nothing. I could be reciting the declaration of independence - possibly one of the most terribly written documents on the face of this earth - and you would be laughing at me. And not supportively, you’re making fun of me! I’ve had enough of this. Do you know who I am, what I’ve done! It’s like I’m on parade in front of both the armies of Napoleon and the Colonies. I have done nothing wrong, and yet you continue to mock me!” 

Now, by the end of his little tirade, this pitch of voice and lilt of his word had changed in the most strange of ways. He was standing, and the invisible crown he always joked about suddenly felt much more real. He blinked, and he felt the weight of ruling a country on his shoulders. 

He looked around; they were still laughing at him. 

And all he could do was watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! <3
> 
> 177(6) Verse News:  
> \-----We got a [King George](http://king-georg-io.tumblr.com/)!  
> 


	6. Tailor Spying On The British Government

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t know how he knew it, but looking at it that was genuinely his first thought. It wasn’t a complaint about the truly outrageous heat, but that a casual day coat like that shouldn’t be so cut so narrow as to restrict movement; the fabric was entirely wrong, as were the angles of the stitching.
> 
> He was about to throw a fit in the milliner's shop - just because of the tour guide’s coat.

Hercules was visiting Williamsburg on his 8th grade school field trip when he realized that the coats some of the guides were wearing were cut wrong. 

He didn’t know how he knew it, but looking at it that was genuinely his first thought. It wasn’t a complaint about the truly outrageous heat, but that a casual day coat like that shouldn’t be so cut so narrow as to restrict movement; the fabric was entirely wrong, as were the angles of the stitching.

He was about to throw a fit in the milliner's shop - just because of the tour guide’s coat.

He was fine though, honestly. Everything was fine.

Or rather, Hercules thought everything was fine - at least until his teacher tried to get his attention, and when she found herself unable to, deemed it necessary to scream his name across the store.

But Hercules wasn’t really paying attention to his surroundings, because they kept changing around him. The hats were being replaced with bolts of fabric in his mind’s eye. As he looked around everything was simultaneously achingly familiar and terribly foreign.

A pair of fingers were snapped in front of his face.

“Mr. Mueller, are you okay?”

His eyes focused on his teacher, and he wouldn’t be able to tell you why, but his first thought was that she wasn’t Cato. 

Hercules blinked several times, still not saying a word.

“Mr. Mueller, are you feeling alright? Is the heat getting to you? Do you need something to drink? To lie down?”

Suddenly Hercules remembered where he was and why he was there - he was on a school field trip to Williamsburg with his class - not in his haberdashery. Different place, different time, different person.

“I’m sorry about that, I think I might have just had my revelation.”

Everyone around him startled at that - people got their revelations at all ages, but anything under the age of sixteen was usually triggered by something. The tour guides looked especially interested - after all, anyone who suddenly remembered in Williamsburg probably lived a life having to do with it, and the guides were massive history nerds.

It was the one with the weird coat that spoke up, “So, who were you?”

This was the question on everyone’s minds - always was. Usually names weren’t recognized, but it didn’t matter - it was a thing of pride to finally be able to give a name. 

“I was Hercules Mulligan.” 

And then, with the manners he had once accepted as a part of everyday life, he bowed. 

The guide bowed back. His stockings had a run.

The group took a moment to collect itself, and then the day continued as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. And really, nothing had - it’s not like he was anybody important. 

The group ended up getting dinner at one of the inn’s in historical Williamsburg, and while they were eating, there were people who would come in and tell stories about the events that had taken place there - normal stuff. 

Of course, while they were eating dessert, they were asked if they had any questions. No one did - they were all tired, full, and ready to go back to the hotel and watch movies until two in the morning. But no, their teacher had to bring up his revelation.

“Actually, I do have a question. You see, one of our students had their revelation today. Do you happen to know anything about a man by the name of Hercules Mulligan?”

Hercules slunked down in his chair.

“That names does sound familiar! I don’t believe he had anything to do with Williamsburg, in particular, but he was involved with the revolution.”

Everyone who had previously been slumping in their chair sat up at that - it wasn’t every day a name was actually recognized, after all.   
“He was a spy, I believe.”

Huh, so he had been a spy. Cool, he could handle being a spy. 

Much later that night, Hercules Mueller lay in his bed, listening as his roommates’ breaths evened out. He couldn’t fall asleep, and he knew it was because of all the memories that had been trickling in the last couple of hours.

He remembered blood, cannons, a group of young men gathered in a dark room sitting around a table with a single candle, he remembered his wife, and he remembered his shop. He lived a decent life, something a man could be happy with.

And wasn’t that a transition - he went from being a fourteen year old boy to a fourteen year old boy with knowledge that came only from having lived over 80 years.

The memories were weird. They weren’t clear the same way he remembered the time he scraped his knee when he was learning how to ride his bike. He saw images, but it was more as if he had learned about it happening to someone else. 

Would he even recognize anyone if he were to run into them? 

He sure hoped so, and it was almost likely. Surely the founding fathers’ reincarnations would have made the news right? He would have heard about it - notable reincarnations were always recorded somewhere. But no, he distinctly remembered learning in his history class that to public knowledge, George Washington and his contemporaries have yet to return.

But, if he was here, the others might be too. They say that soldiers live soldiers’ lives, and that they will always live soldiers’ lives. Their memories are dark, horrid, bloody, and never-ending. Hercules knew himself to be more than a soldier, he wasn’t someone who lived through that cycle endlessly. He remembered his life outside of the war.

He was Hercules Mulligan and Hercules Mueller. Tailor, Soldier, Spy, and now a modern American teenager on a fieldtrip.


	7. The Prodigy of Princeton College

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron Alston was praised by all of his parent’s friends. He was polite, smart, and was really good at avoiding arguments. His teachers never had a bad thing to say about him. He was well-liked by everyone, even if he didn’t have any particularly close friends.
> 
> His biggest fault was that he tended to wait until the last minute to get anything done, but he was still a successful individual.

Aaron Alston was praised by all of his parent’s friends. He was polite, smart, and was really good at avoiding arguments. His teachers never had a bad thing to say about him. He was well-liked by everyone, even if he didn’t have any particularly close friends.

His biggest fault was that he tended to wait until the last minute to get anything done, but he was still a successful individual. 

Aaron went through life exactly like he was meant to. He listened to his parents, he listened to his teachers, he smiled at strangers he passed on the street, and he anxiously awaited the day he remembered who he was.

He was in sixth grade the first time someone around him got their revelation. It was a girl in their class who had just finished reading a short story aloud to the class, turns out she was the writer and remembered writing it and publishing it under a man’s name. 

The second time was during the final week of class in eighth grade - they had just gotten to the unit about the second world war and the teacher was giving a crash course of sorts on the topic, and they had apparently decided that clips from documentaries were the way to do this. One of the images shown in the video featured a student in his class who had promptly had an anxiety attack and was sent to the nurse before their mom was called. He had been a soldier.

Aaron had a vague notion of familiarity when they had learned about the revolution, but he was never quite sure if that was because it was all stuff he had heard time and time again, or if it was actually supposed to mean something.

He went through high school much the same way - being good at most things, but never standing out at anything. He rubbed some people the wrong way, and he certainly had his moments where the world seemed to be against him, but overall life wasn’t terrible. 

As he got older, more and more people began to get the revelations until he was the only one in his class who hadn’t. Sure there were the new souls, but something told Aaron that wasn’t the case for him. He felt that he was missing out on something, and occasionally he would get glimpses - enough to tell him that it had at one time been normal for him to see men in the street wearing powdered wigs. And modern life was simply missing something - the poetry of life.

He was missing the beauty that was to be found in life, everything seemed so dull. 

His days were uneventful: wake up, go to school, go home, do homework, fuck around on the internet, eat dinner, fuck around on the internet some more, sleep. 

There was conflict, no source of amusement - just the occasional mistake that his parents had only become more exasperated at as he got older. 

Aaron must have only been a casual observer - anyone more noteworthy from that time period would be much more distinct, right? After all those years of having American history rammed into your skull, it would be easier to recognize the smaller details, right? 

His parents were a little worried for him. They recognized the signs of reincarnation in him: old-fashioned phrases that would slip into his vocabulary as a child, bowing back with perfect posture to a reenactment actor, and the age and experience that was sometimes visible in his eyes.

His mother liked to tell the story of how his grandmother had held him on her lap when he was two, looked at him for a period of time, before stating that the babe regretted something with his entire heart. She said it you could see it in the set of his brows. According to his father, his mother had nervously snatched him up before laughing it off. 

But Aaron Alston didn’t know who he was, and that too left some kind of mark.

He snatched onto anything that sparked even the slightest memory. He had once spent way too much money on an old pistol that made his hand twitch when he looked at it. Looking at his receipt and regretting his purchase had also sparked that odd sense of nostalgia, so that too had paid off in a way.

He had gotten accepted into college, not that he had really been that worried about that. Part of him wishes he had been able to fill in the past life field on his college applications, lord knows that despite what they might try to say to the contrary, the ivy leagues certainly were more likely to accept you if you had gone there before.

College was going to be his fresh start, he might never fully remember who he was, and that was fine. There were plenty of people who knew even less than he did. His memories were still sparked, after all. He remembered he had a daughter when he held his cousin’s son for the first time.

That had been a happy memory. The pride that had filled him in that moment was truly indescribable, but it had faded so quickly.

That was why he wanted to remember. Not because of some sort of odd attachment to his past, but because he once lived a life worth living. He felt strongly about things, even if he wasn’t quite sure how well he communicated those feelings. The few bits of pieces he did have - pride, happiness, anger, jealousy, and love - those are what he was lacking this time around. Sure, he loved his parents, but nothing in his life seemed spectacular.

It was like watching an old black and white film against a background of blurry bright colors. Sure, it might not be discernable, but it was almost certainly better than what was right in front of him .

Maybe that’s what he would find at school. The people who would make him remember not only his past life, but why life was worth living. Mistakes might have been made, but at least there were consequences beyond a brief lecture. He wanted to do something worth the pride or regret that came after, and now all he had to do was wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I might like this one <3
> 
> I'm writing this Saturday night (technically Sunday morning) but this will be posted Monday, so a reminder that I will be visiting a friend in Florida from Tuesday to Sunday, so while I shall try my best to write enough in advance that I can keep my normal posting schedule, I can make no promises <3


	8. The Oldest and Wittiest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was going to make her own path, and hopefully do it with the support of her family and the people who she would meet along the way. She was as smart as she had ever been, and now she had more options than ever before to use that intelligence to her advantage. She wanted to be a part of it all - not watching from the sidelines, but behind the scenes in control of the situation.

Angel remembered while she and her sisters were out walking with their mother. They had passed by Trinity church, and the next thing she knew she was lying on the concrete with her family standing over her completely frantic.

They all had guessed what had happened, but Lizzie was the only one that had a certain knowing look in her eyes. It wasn’t common for siblings to be reincarnated together, but Angel had always known that her and her sisters were a step above the rest. It made sense that the same rule applied for this.

Angel made quick work of calming her parents and Peggy down, telling them that she’d tell them the details of her revelation later.

As soon as they got home, she told them that she lived during the American revolution, and grew to marry a British merchant. Her parents accepted it at face-value - not much more was expected of a woman.

She wasn’t expected to reveal just how involved she had been with the men who were the leading force behind it all - just how much influence she had exerted. It was much the same as it had been before, really. Her parents would be scandalized at her behavior two-hundred years earlier. 

But really, what else was a girl to do to entertain herself.

Well, help her sister protect her husband’s legacy - that was always an option. 

After her parents left the room and Peggy was distracted by something, Lizzie and Angel were left alone together. Or rather, Elizabeth and Angelica Schuyler were fully together for the first time in much too long. Angel was finally able to understand just why Lizzie seemed to carry an aura of sadness around her, for Lizzie had recognized exactly what must have been running through her mind. It was with the knowledge that Lizzie had been living with the ache of grief for much too long that Angel opened her arms. 

They sat together crying for much too long a time, but it was exactly what they both needed, and something they would no doubt experience multiple times as years came to pass. 

After the tears faded they simply took one another in, and then they started to talk.

Words filled the air, with hardly a breath in-between. It was an old-pattern they were falling into, older than they knew. They talked about how different it was to look at the city and country they lived in knowing the hand they had in creating it.

They laughed over their shared memory of Lizzie crying at the Washington Monument when they had visited D.C. a couple of years ago. Things were clicking into place for Angelica. All the little things that Lizzie had done over the years suddenly made so much sense. 

After all, the normal person didn’t go out of their way to ask the bank to give them their withdrawal in ten dollar bills rather than the usual twenties if there wasn’t some sort of reason - and liking even numbers didn’t cut it.

But everything exists in cycles and soon they were crying again. The first round had been more therapeutic - the shock of the situation settling in. But now, the memories were so much more real when you were with someone who you had shared them with. Tears of happiness were shed over their girlhood memories, giggles over the soldiers who had tried to court them - until finally they came to Alexander. 

Alexander Hamilton - the man who had changed both of their lives. Despite the heartache and pain he had brought with him, it had ultimately been for the better. Angel knew that Lizzie had always had it in her to go out and make a change, but perhaps Alexander was the trigger she needed to take that from within her and do something with it.

Their conversation on Lizzie’s husband had been very short - a muttering of his name, and a shared look was all it took before they carried on.

They discussed their children, something that was extremely bittersweet. After all, they were both mothers, and their children had been such a great source of joy - but they were gone now, never to be seen again. It wasn’t uncommon for people to spiral into depression after receiving their revelation and realizing there was no way they’d be able to live the same life.

Angel was not going to let that happen to her.

She was going to make her own path, and hopefully do it with the support of her family and the people who she would meet along the way. She was as smart as she had ever been, and now she had more options than ever before to use that intelligence to her advantage. She wanted to be a part of it all - not watching from the sidelines, but behind the scenes in control of the situation.

There was something terribly appealing about knowing you have the cards in your hand. When people saw you, and made the judgement that you had no power - when all along you’re the one controlling their every move. That was what Angelica Schuyler wanted, and never quite managed. She had seen people in her life in that position, but she never quite fell into it herself.

But Angel Skylar? Angel Skylar was going to do it. 

How? She didn’t quite know. But she did know that when she got there, her sisters would be by her side. She had left them, before, to try to go her own way - and she had missed them with every fiber of her being. Angel wasn’t going to let herself make that same mistake this time around.

She was going to find a place, and claim it as her own. No longer would she let society define where she would be able to go. She’ll take her sisters with her, and together they’ll take on the world. 

She might have just had her revelation, but it was the start of a revolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! :-) This is the final update I had pre-written, so the possibility exists that I might not be able to update again until Monday.
> 
> 177(6) Verse News:  
> \-----A [moodboard](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/148000157365/fighting-frenchbread-mess-is-mine-by-vance) was made for Theo 2.0/Lance (G.W.Laf) from "Come of Age in Our New Nation" by DonOsservatore  
> \-----Our Philip RPer wrote the most beautiful [poem](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/148000358120/on-times-shore) based on this verse:  
> \-----QueenieRose53001 wrote a fic based on this verse called "[Dedicating Every Day To You](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7586350)"  
> \----------  
> \-----QueenieRose53001 also wrote a fic based on this verse called "[HamFam Reunion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7609798/chapters/17320165)"  
> \-----ClassicalCassiopeia on tumblr has created moodboards for [Alex](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/148149270820/classicalcassiopeia-i-have-recently-become) and [John](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/148149746495/classicalcassiopeia-here-is-the-next-part-of-my) in the 177(6) Verse  
> Me News:  
> \-----I am overwhelmed by all of this in the best way possible, so thank you, so much!!!  
> \-----For those wondering, I am having a great time in Florida! Though I have had less time to write than I would like
> 
> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


	9. Redefining Bravery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The next year, in a different classroom with a different teacher, he was assigned an essay in his english class. They were supposed to research a historical figure - picking from the stack of biographies provided. 
> 
> Jon grabbed the one that people kept skipping over. He wasn’t really paying that much attention, but once he had it in his hand, he figured out very quickly why people didn’t want it - the thing was a fucking brick. He was pushed out of the way before he could exchange it. He signed it out and resigned himself to his fate.
> 
> Besides, he had more important things to worry about, like why Alexander Hamilton’s portrait made his heart go all wibbly-wobbly in his chest."

It was a normal day for Jonathan Lawrence. 

He was simply minding his own business, living his life, when he was hit in the head with a book.

Now, on it’s own, that wouldn’t be that big of a deal - sure, it’d be annoying, but really only a headache at most. 

But this was a special occurrence, because in that moment Jonathan Lawrence did something he had never done before; he remembered something. It wasn’t a particularly notable memory, but it was something.

A young boy had thrown something at him as a girl was hugging him tight. A man stood a little ways away. They were calling him Jack, and telling him to write and to survive. The accent and voices were unfamiliar to his modern ears, but comforting nonetheless. There was excitement and a little bit of fear. He was older in the memory.The clothing wasn’t anything close to modern, but Jon couldn’t quite place the era. 

He was an old soul, presumably a soldier. 

But he had to have been more than a soldier - soldiers didn’t remember things peacefully, it was always violent. He had a family, and they were important to him - at least the children. Were they his siblings? They called him Jack.

Who was he?

In his memory he was wearing blue.

He didn’t remember anything else for a very long while, years actually. 

Jon had the terrible habit of sleeping through his history classes, and today they were watching a documentary on the revolutionary war. As soon as the music came on, he knew that he was about to have a pretty great nap. 

He listened to the documentary going in the background as he settled his head in his arms. The narrator had a lulling voice, which certainly wasn’t going to make his endeavor any more difficult. It was something about the american army and George Washington’s military family or something. The rumor was that the teacher gave a pop-quiz on Washington’s assistants, but they had a sub, so Jon was sure he was in the clear.

In the background the soothing voice was saying, “George Washington’s headquarters were staffed by a small army of secretaries and aides during the war for independence, notable names found among them include his wife Martha and Alexander Hamilton, who would later become the first Treasury Secretary. Less known are Peter Bowman, John Laurens, and John Trumbull - naming just a few.”

Now, Jon had always paid attention to the weird feelings he had gotten when he actually paid attention in class - many people claimed those were the key to figuring out who you were in a past life, not many people had a grand revelation after all, and even fewer were historically significant. Reincarnation was a puzzle you had to figure out on your own. 

But this feeling was more than something weird he could easily shrug off, this was something that he felt deep inside of his bones. What is was, he didn’t know, but Jon was now paying very close attention to the documentary playing on the screen. 

The feeling didn’t come back, so he had wasted a perfectly good nap for nothing.

Later on in life, Jon would be able to describe that feeling as longing.

After that, he did make a habit to at least listen to documentaries in class, just in case that feeling came back. It had to mean something. 

The next year, in a different classroom with a different teacher, he was assigned an essay in his english class. They were supposed to research a historical figure - picking from the stack of biographies provided. 

Jon grabbed the one that people kept skipping over. He wasn’t really paying that much attention, but once he had it in his hand, he figured out very quickly why people didn’t want it - the thing was a fucking brick. He was pushed out of the way before he could exchange it. He signed it out and resigned himself to his fate. 

Besides, he had more important things to worry about, like why Alexander Hamilton’s portrait made his heart go all wibbly-wobbly in his chest. 

Reading the biography on Alexander Hamilton could only be described as a religious experience. 

Jon wasn’t really the type to laugh and cry while reading, but there was something about Hamilton’s story that drew him in. He had started the first chapter out of spite more than anything else, the handsome man on the cover deserved to have all his dirty laundry aired for all he cared.

He was over 200 paged into the biography at 3 in the morning when he realized that he was way too invested in the life of the first treasury secretary. That had to mean something, right.

So, he did was any other teenager would do - he googled “Alexander Hamilton Jack”, because there was no way that all his feelings for the ill-tempered immigrant were new. From what he knew, the clothing from his memory did seem to match up with the revolutionary war.

He had fought in the revolutionary war, huh.

Nothing of interest came up.

He tried “Alexander Hamilton John” instead. Jack may have been what he was called in his single memory from before, but Jack was a nickname for John. Most people’s names were somehow related to their past life’s name - no one knew why that happened, but no one knew why reincarnation happened either, so no one really questioned it too much. 

The first result: “Was Founding Father Alexander Hamilton Bisexual?”. He clicked it.

He read it.

Something clicked. 

It wasn’t the article itself - no it was the excerpts of letters included. He found himself mouthing the words while reading. There were not letters he had knowingly read before in this life, but rather words he must have once spent hours reading and tracing with his fingertips. They resonated on too deep a level to describe.

He had been John Laurens, and he had been in love with Alexander Hamilton.

Were they to meet again, he was certain that the love would return full-force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really liked writing this one - I feel like I say that with each of these chapters, but I really didn't have to force anything here
> 
> 177(6) Verse News:  
> \-----ClassicalCassiopeia has continued with the lovely moodboards! [Dolley](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/148372594975/classicalcassiopeia-this-is-the-last-1776) [George-io](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/148396572875/classicalcassiopeia-i-promised-gifts-for-el) [Seabury](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/148402093035/classicalcassiopeia-gift-edit-25-for) [Charles Lee](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/148406557825/classicalcassiopeia-ok-so-final-1776-gift)  
> 


	10. You Simply Must Meet Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After that the memories became more vivid, and were much easier to define as memories. He had spent hours reading - so much reading. Reading was good, reading was something he could handle. Letter writing was also pretty great. The casual strolls taken through the city where interesting - the world looked so different, back then. He must have been someone of importance, because he remembered being greeted with nods and looks of respect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS IN END NOTES
> 
> I REPEAT
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS IN END NOTES

Today was a pretty great day. 

A beautiful Saturday morning, staring up into the beautiful blue sky. His sister was coming back from an overnight school trip to some historical town with a small reenactment set up, and that was the only thing he had to worry about all day. His mom had been talking about it non-stop. It wasn’t his fault that some kid decided it was a good idea to throw a basketball at the kid climbing a tree and the school didn’t feel comfortable bringing a kid in a cast along.

His mom had given Martha plenty of money for souvenirs, and part of him was really excited to see what she’d get him. Martha was one of those people that always got really great gifts - the type that you thought were useless at first, but you ended up reaching for everyday. 

Martha ran in the door, tired but excited to see everyone. She was one of those people that brightened a room, and Thomas had a special place in his heart for her. Probably his favorite sister - something he would never let the others know. 

After running through the entire house to make sure she had hugged all the animals at least twice, Martha made her way back to the living room, arms full of whatever she picked up from the shops. 

She had gotten a thing of old-fashioned mustache wax for their dad; something he would no doubt never use but find amusement in for years to come. Their mom has gotten an old-style wanted picture with Martha’s face on it - something that was immediately pinned to the fridge. Lucy, Anna, and Elizabeth all got bags full of old-fashioned candy. Thomas got an old star chart, something Martha thought he’d like to hang on his wall. 

It was an odd gift, given that he had never really cared about that sort of thing, but he knew that she could have gotten him an old tack and he would have been overjoyed.

It would have been almost completely unremarkable if he didn’t find himself being able to read it.

Thomas didn’t let himself think too much about that - if it meant anything, it would come up again later. He noted it in the back of his mind, and went about the rest of his day. According to his mama, a memory was all well and good, but it was the here and now that made a difference. He was getting to the age where a revelation should be coming, so he paid extra special attention to those sort of things.

Waking up the next morning he found himself having a different sort of awareness of the world - like something in his mind had changed. He didn’t know what, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it, but he was curious. When he went outside that day, feeling the sun’s rays on his back, he knew that at one time he had spent time in the sun looking out over the fields. 

It wasn’t a memory, but he knew it happened. 

Maybe he had always lived on a farm - that wasn’t a bad life. His dad liked to say that there was no truer profession than working the earth with your own two hands. That was something he could live with.

That’s how Thomas spent his next couple of weeks. He lived his life as he always had, breakfast in the morning, school, chores, dinner, shower, bed. And every morning he’d wake up with a new memory, thought, or idea - things that came from a life he lived before.

The clearest glimpse he’d gotten was of seeing two hands writing, which multiple people talking around him. The most shocking thing had been the realization that the hands were his own, after that was seeing that he was writing with a quill. 

He had been a white man in an era where quills were the presumably typical thing to write with.

After that the memories became more vivid, and were much easier to define as memories. He had spent hours reading - so much reading. Reading was good, reading was something he could handle. Letter writing was also pretty great. The casual strolls taken through the city where interesting - the world looked so different, back then. He must have been someone of importance, because he remembered being greeted with nods and looks of respect.

He still didn’t know who he was, but that’s okay. The mystery made it fun.

That was a lie - Thomas was terrified of finding out who he was. He knew the types of things that important white men got away with back then - still get away with today. Perhaps he’d be one of those people who never regained their entire memory back. 

Ignorance was bliss.

Unfortunately for Thomas Jemmings, he was not destined to live his life never knowing. 

It didn’t come at once, and for that he was grateful. It gave him more time to process it, he supposed.

He had been the man who wrote the Declaration of Independence. 

He had been the third President of the United States of America.

He made the Louisiana Purchase.

He sent out the Lewis & Clark expedition.

Thomas Jefferson had been a slave-owner.

And wasn’t that a bitter pill to swallow. It was so much better when he thought he had been a farmer.

He didn’t sleep for the next week - his parents had become incessantly worried, but he didn’t know how to tell them. He didn’t want to. He wasn’t going to.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t a habit he could keep up for very long. 

He essentially passed out and slept for about 20 hours. Waking up he was exhausted, but physically he felt better overall. Sleep was necessary for survival, unfortunately. The best part was when he realized he didn’t have any new memories. 

You revelation was supposed to be a happy thing, a chance to fully discover who you were - but this was completely heart-wrenching. This was a fourteen year old boy suddenly remembering doing terrible things and being a part of an even worse system.

The next couple of months passed fairly uneventful. No new memories had come to the front, and he was okay with that hiatus. He knew there was more to come, but he was grateful for the break. 

He still had trouble sleeping, he was eating less and less, and what he did eat he almost always managed to throw up later. It wasn’t a particularly enjoyable existence, and he only motivation he had to keep holding it together was his family.

His mom, dad, and sisters - who smiled at him every day and looked at him with such worry.

The concern made him feel worse.

It was his own goddamn fault, he deserved this and so much more. Logically he knew that the actions of his past-self were not his own, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. He also knew, from a logical perspective, that terrible people were reincarnated just the same as anyone else, and that the second time around they often managed to live perfectly normal lives.

People learned from their mistakes - that’s why people lived multiple times, because sometimes the first life was just the first draft, and first drafts are always shit.

Thomas wanted the first draft wiped away from existence, until he was the only one who had any idea it was even a thing in the first place. But that just wasn’t possible - not when one was Thomas Jefferson, not when you saw your goddamn name and face everywhere.

He didn’t know that there was a town called Jefferson nearby until the name started popping out at him from absolutely everywhere. 

A slap in the face - a constant reminder of his past mistakes.

He couldn’t take it anymore, but he had to, for his family. For some reason they still found something to love in him, even if he didn’t deserve it. The scars on his wrist were for him and for him alone.

But they taunted at him, almost as much as his past actions. It would be so easy to just cut deeper, cut more. He couldn’t do that to his family. 

That was the worst part. They saw that he wasn’t doing okay, but they didn’t know why. He knew that if he tried to say something, they’d say that what he did a hundred years ago doesn’t matter - he’s his own person now. 

It doesn’t make him feel any better; funny how emotions don’t follow the same logic as the brain.

More thoughts and memories and mannerisms had started trickling in again, but nothing as bad as before.

France was pretty cool. 

It was a very different kind of pain to mourn someone who had been dead for years, sad and distant. 

Thomas could tell that there were gaps in his memories. Years missing from his childhood, and months spent building Monticello - things he knew happened, but didn’t remember. There were some gaps he never wanted filled.

He had made an effort to learn as much about himself as possible, to prepare himself for the worse. 

He had no desire to remember Sally Hemings. That poor girl had been hurt in the worst of ways - made powerless by society and taken advantage of and then shoved away. It was heartbreaking to just read about.

Dreams did not come true, and the nightmares had already occurred. 

He woke up that night drenched in sweat, barely making it to the bathroom before emptying the contents of his stomach.

Thomas had gotten very good at quieting his sobs, which is why it was almost too late when his mother found him on the bathroom floor, empty bottle of pills in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: SELF-HARM AND ATTEMPTED SUICIDE
> 
> \---
> 
> Uh, yes, this happened. I love Tommy a lot, okay. He's happy now with Herc and the squad, hold onto that. 
> 
> 177(6) Verse News:  
> \-----Fighting-frenchbread on tumblr has made some hilarious [fanart](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/148542093350/fighting-frenchbread-um-sir-pardon-me-but) featuring George-io and Seabury! :-)  
> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


	11. America's Favorite Fighting Frenchperson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert was interesting. Reading his history kept drawing their attention towards the American Revolution though, and while interesting, they had much more important things to focus on.
> 
> They ended up remembering not during their research, but rather while they were taking a break from it.
> 
> Paul had always been fond of wandering the estate - it was beautiful. Their favorite spot was under a large tree a decent walk away from the home. It was the perfect place to lie in the shade and take a nap.

Paul loved Les Mis.

There was just something about it that resonated with them. The spirit of revolution, the patriotism, the beauty of the musical - it was simply magnificent. 

Something in their heart resonated with the uprising that had no hope of succeeding - but part of them also knew that with the right turn of luck and resources, anything was possible. 

Paul had brought that up in class one time, because for some reason the discussion had turned to military strategy, and they were instantly shut down. The teacher had asked why anyone should possibly lay hope on that type of strategy - one that relied on luck, assistance from outside sources, and playing dirty.

They didn’t have a response that would have made sense, but the words that popped into their head were “because it worked for George”.

They didn’t know who George was. There were a lot of Georges in this world. 

They spent their free time learning about the history of the french revolution. Something that sparked those kinds of feelings had to have something to do with before. Chances were that they weren’t going to find anything, but they knew enough to narrow it down.

They were de Lafayette, as was the rest of their family. The most interesting thing about the de Lafayette family wasn’t the title of Marquis that belonged to them and the pomp and circumstance that came with it, but rather the fact that they tended to reincarnate in their own family.

It wasn’t the strangest thing that had been observed, there were entire fields of study dedicated to the lifecycle, but it was certainly worth commenting on. 

Their mother thought she was being clever when she named them after a significant ancestor, saying it’d be most entertaining if they grew up to be someone who hated the man they were named after.

Paul didn’t think that would be the case.

They had taken special interest into researching the past actions of their family, and this was expected behavior. There was an entire section of the library dedicated to journals, portraits, biographies, and other such things of note regarding their deceased family members for this express purpose.

Paul didn’t quite feel a pull to a particular person, but to an era. They preferred reading the personal journals of the family during the time of the revolution. Their personal favorite was the journal of Adrienne, wife of their namesake.

Reading it felt like an invasion of privacy, but she written the words knowing they would be read by her descendants. It was only her journals that made them feel that way, but Paul had always written it off as due to the emotion she poured into her every word. They had never had quite the right mind for this sort of thing, but Adrienne must have been a truly magnificent writer to tug at their heartstrings in such a manner.

When they asked their family about they didn’t seem to agree, but Paul just thought that they didn’t appreciate true art. 

She had been so in love with her husband, and the couldn’t read her tales of him without crying. Their cousins made fun of them constantly for it, but they genuinely couldn’t help it.

There was actually a period of time where they thought they might have been Adrienne, but her experiences didn’t seem to click entirely with their mind. It was close though - that they could tell.

They started to read more about her children, Georges especially stood out to them, but nothing came of that line of thought either. 

Gilbert was interesting. Reading his history kept drawing their attention towards the American Revolution though, and while interesting, they had much more important things to focus on.

They ended up remembering not during their research, but rather while they were taking a break from it.

Paul had always been fond of wandering the estate - it was beautiful. Their favorite spot was under a large tree a decent walk away from the home. It was the perfect place to lie in the shade and take a nap.

That’s something their mother always said pointed to them being an older reincarnation - how much time they spent wandering around outside just thinking. Paul didn’t hold that much value in her statement, as plenty of people, even those who were living their first life, liked to walk around and think.

How else were you supposed to keep your thoughts in order?

Paul always did their best thinking right before falling asleep and right after waking up. Most people might find that strange, but it was something they’d accepted about themselves. There was a time when Paul was convinced they were a great writer before, after reading a quote that seemed to be not completely foreign and they had kept a journal by their bed for the purpose of writing down any ideas they might have during their peak operating hours.

The journal had maybe two pages filled before it was lost and never replaced.

Paul was a great thinker, and they were a do-er, but writing was not their strength. Sure they could get the words down on paper, but the full meaning never managed to be conveyed. 

Paul was waking up from a short nap under their favorite tree, and for the first time they wished that had maintained the habit of keeping a journal with them.

Turns out they were Adrienne’s husband, and wasn’t that nice, knowing that they had been loved like that before - so strongly, and so purely. Paul was content with that.

They were less content knowing that their first memory of their before-wife was of her dying moments. That wasn’t very nice. 

But life wasn’t supposed to be nice. Life was supposed to be painful, and joyous, and sad, and hopeful - full of the ups and downs that made it interesting. Paul had once lived a life that could be deemed successful - they remember the burning passion that had once burned through their veins, and the thoughts of liberty that would not leave their head when they had first learned of America.

That was the sort of passion that was worth chasing after. 

But Paul had found it before, and knowing that offered a wonderful sense of peace. They didn’t need to chase after it, for they had already experienced it. They could, if they wanted to. But now was the time to enjoy life as it came, and find the love in the world and the relationships they would form in the years to come.

Paul felt awfully wise for their years. 

They were going to return to America, when, they didn’t quite know. But they were going to renew their citizenship from before via all the official channels, and live their life simply to enjoy the country for which they had fought so hard for. 

Paul had a plan, and one their parents would surely come around to. 

University would be a good place to start.

Little did they know that the fire of revolution that had once burned so brightly within them hadn’t been completely doused, all they needed was a fan to turn the spark inside of them into a flame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely convinced this makes sense
> 
> 177(6) Verse News:  
> \-----Fighting-frenchbread on tumblr has made a [polysquad art](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/148587159550/fighting-frenchbread-id-tap-that-straight)!!!  
> \-----Two more RPers have joined the squad! [Martha](http://the-real-m-vp.tumblr.com/) and a new [Angel](http://willieverbesatisfied.tumblr.com/)  
> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


	12. This Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The memories weren’t clear, but for the first time she had a grasp on who she once was. 
> 
> She was a survivor.

Maria was a writer.

Not stories though, those didn’t come to her so easily. She had tried. In middle school her homeroom advisor made them write something down in a provided journal everyday. Her advisor had looked at her before declaring that she could see a book in her.

Maria had taken those words to heart and tried to write something, anything, and get that book out into the world.

The book never came, but Maria realized that just because a book didn’t seem to be coming out of her fingertips anytime soon it didn’t mean she couldn’t write.

No, for some reason Maria had a great relationship with essay writing. There was something that came so easily about presenting an argument in such a clear and concise format. It was nice. It might have seemed weird to those she tried to explain it to, but it was an escape. The information was all there at her fingertips, and her only job was to bring it all together. 

She had always been a reader. What was strange was that it wasn’t things like Junie B. Jones and Harry Potter that caught her attention, but rather old histories and fact books. Maria sought knowledge like an honors student sought validation. 

As the times changed so did the way Maria learned. She moved from old books at the library to blogs on the internet. Feminism was something that immediately stood out to her, and something she latched onto. 

Not only was it something she could identify with as a woman, but it was just so interesting - so many things were effected by the way society viewed and treated women. She could learn about science, the arts, military history, dance, and american literature all under one umbrella. It was like a dream come true. 

Of course under that umbrella came some very dark things, and it was these things that Maria felt herself relating to. The stories of abuse rang close to home and she didn’t know why. The sex workers living their lives without the respect they deserved as human beings; these were the stories that she ate up more than anything else.

But they weren’t stories, they were real events that happened to real people.

In response, Maria did what Maria did best - she wrote. She started a feminist blog, and she wrote. She read article after article, noted down quotes from various sources and looked into statistics - and then she formed her argument. She’d spend hours every week reading, compiling her information, and then typing it up (properly citing everything, of course). 

At first the topics of her posts were simple: dress code affecting girls’ access to education, why sex-ed should be taught in schools, and how forced heteronormativity could have a negative impact of lgbtqia+ children’s brain development. 

Maria was only doing it for herself, at first. It gave her a chance to unwind during the week and do what she enjoyed, but she started to get a following. People were starting to cite her as a source and listen to what she had to say. They didn’t know who she was, they only saw her as someone educated on the topics she was writing about.

Maria felt respected, and she liked that.

People started to argue with her, and rip apart her articles. At first she was horrified - who wouldn’t be. Her writing hadn’t ever really been criticized before. But she started to look past the insults about her being female and look at the points they were attempting to make, and saw how easy they were to refute. 

So that is what she did.

But then the topics started to shift towards those that seemed to resonate with her: the ones of domestic violence and women and emotionally abusive relationships. 

Maria did what she had always done: she researched, found quotes, cited statistics, and delivered the information in the same logical manner she’d been using for years. Or she tried, at least. 

One of the main things she kept referencing was the story of a woman who escaped an emotionally and physically abusive situation by running away with the man her husband was forcing her to have sex with for money.

There was something about it she kept going back to - not just for the quotes and the story, but because something inside of her was so close to breaking free, and to release it all she had to do was keep reading.  
And so Maria kept reading, but all the while she kept writing.

Her posts were usually almost cold in how swiftly and logically they delivered the information, but recently she found herself pouring emotion into the words. 

She was always writing - but it was usually ideas for her next posting, or an outline for a particularly length essay she had plans for writing. What Maria was doing now was different. She was venting - something she had only half-believed writers did in real life.

But here she was, writing and writing and writing of events she wasn’t even sure had happened. There were no quotes and no numbers interrupting her own thoughts. It wasn’t presented in a logical manner, and had this been any other time she would have stopped immediately. But the words kept flowing. 

When she reread her words so did the tears. 

The memories weren’t clear, but for the first time she had a grasp on who she once was. 

She was a survivor. 

It didn’t mean anything, really. It was just in a past life she didn’t remember every detail of, it was meaningless. But Maria had put a lot of time and a lot of effort into researching and writing on this very topic, and she knew that wasn’t true at all.

It explained all the times she found herself cringing back when someone raised their voice or lifted their arm. 

Even though she had written thousands of words on why accepting these things was a necessary step in healing, she couldn’t help but step into the sweet embrace of denial. She selected each word on the screen in front of her, and then with only a moment’s hesitation, she hit delete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I haven't had the chance to really add that much depth to Maria, so here she is in all of her glory
> 
> 177(6) News:  
> \----DonOsservatore has written a [177(6) verse fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7725085/chapters/17606959) including the Hamilsquad and the 2.0 Squad from his "Come Of Age In Our New Nation"  
> 


	13. Mad As A Hatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It might have been okay, had he not started coughing. This wasn’t that strange for James. What was strange is that mid-coughing fit, he turned around and placed his hand on the shoulder of the girl standing next to him in line and said, “Thanks, Thomas” after she helped to steady him.
> 
> The girl was not named Thomas. He wasn’t sure he had ever met anyone named Thomas.

James had asthma, and it was terrible.

Everything was terrible.

James was just trying to live his life, but it just wasn’t happening. 

It was all falling apart. 

Why did this have to happen to him of all people. 

James was just trying his best. He was cold, it was raining, and he was having difficulty breathing - nothing too out of the ordinary for a halftime show. He knew his music, he knew his drill, and he was doing exactly what he was supposed to. 

And then he tripped. And fell, in front of anyone. Now, any band kid knew that the ideal reaction to have in that situation was to get back up in zero time as if nothing had happened, or get out of the way as soon as possible. The reason for those two courses of actions was simple: you were going to get walked over otherwise. 

James knew that, logically. However feeling it in his soul and actually carrying out the task was another thing completely. So he lied there. And was stepped on.

If he thought he was miserable while he was marching, this was a whole new level of pain. Not only did it hurt his body, it hurt his pride.

It was a familiar feeling. 

James had never been able to be called large in any sense of the word, but he had never realized just how that might transfer to not being seen over an instrument while focused.

He struggled to crawl out of the way enough so he could get his bearings, and then he heard it. The one sound he was praying would not grace his ears this night or any time in his future: the distinct crunch of wood and metal under a rubber shoe.

Someone had stepped on his clarinet.

This was bullshit. 

The halftime show was over, so James gathered up his misshapen clarinet and fell into line, dirty footprints and bits of turf clinging to his uniform. Bruised and battered he stood under the lights and put on the front of being perfectly fine; as if the hundred of people around him hadn’t just seen him literally get walked over.

It might have been okay, had he not started coughing. This wasn’t that strange for James. What was strange is that mid-coughing fit, he turned around and placed his hand on the shoulder of the girl standing next to him in line and said, “Thanks, Thomas” after she helped to steady him.

The girl was not named Thomas. He wasn’t sure he had ever met anyone named Thomas.

Later that night as he was lying in bed, sore and exhausted, he still had no idea where “Thomas” had come from. It would make sense that Thomas was something from before, but it just seemed so strange. Surely he would have gotten something more than just a name while coughing.

Maybe the coughing had something to do with it. 

The coughing had everything to do with it, it turned out. 

Everytime he had one of his coughing fits or found himself struggling for breath he’d get a flash of some sort, the most repeated being two names: Thomas and Dolley. He also remembered writing (with a quill!) and standing with groups of men in powdered wigs discussing very important things.

He must have been very important™.

James had the terrible habit of reading during class. His teachers used to all kick up a huge fuss about it, but had realized fairly quickly that the quiet kid reading in the corner was the least of their problems. 

He was usually pretty good about tuning in enough to what the teacher was saying to catch upcoming assignments and tests, but sometimes the book he was reading was really good and he didn’t have enough self-discipline to listen to the teacher. 

Today was the unfortunate result of one of those circumstances, and the only thing James had to say for himself was whoever wrote the Bill of Rights needed to be reincarnated right now so as to earn the punch to the face they so rightly deserve, and the world needed to cease existence for about five minutes so he could punch his teacher who expected everyone to have the first ten amendments memorized. 

He wish he knew who it even was so he could curse their name properly.

That was, of course, the bonus question on the quiz.

Of course.

Right now James didn’t appreciate the irony, but he would grow to.

James wasn’t really the type to try to start an argument, but occasionally feelings would build up and he’d rant for a moment or two before letting it go once more. This didn’t happen that often, and when it did it wasn’t particularly remarkable, but James was often embarrassed by those occurrences nonetheless. 

The funny thing about teachers who taught history and government is that after learning about the same rivalries and arguments for so long, they inevitably chose a side; and his teacher was a Hamiltonian if there ever was one. They were a rare breed - usually people sided with Jefferson, and he’d heard more than one teacher say that Aaron Burr was the one man who was never president but should have been. 

Their teacher was going on and on about the federalist papers and how Hamilton had written 51 of them when they had only planned on writing 25 and so on and son. The man didn’t mention Jy of Madison more than once.

Like, okay, he got it. Hamilton wrote a lot, it was impressive - everyone knew that. 

That didn’t mean the teacher had to keep talking about it. Hamilton was right about most of his plans, but that didn’t make the pill less bitter to swallow. One would think that the years in the interim would have made it so Hamilton was no longer painted in such a night light - even with the scandal and duel, there were still people defending him.

He had already admitted that he was wrong, he didn’t need to be reminded constantly.

James was aware that the thoughts running through his head were strange - like they belonged to someone else - but he found himself agreeing with all of them, so surely they had some merit. 

When the teacher asked if anyone had any questions, James raised his hand. The teacher was surprised, but called on him any less.

Rather than asking a normal question like “Is this going to be on the test”, James stood up and walked to the front of the classroom, with every intention of pointing out how quantity did not equal quality and it really is about time people stopped praising Hamilton. 

But, before any of those words could escape his lips, he started coughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a serious struggle and I don't know why
> 
> 177(6) Verse News:  
> \----- i-n-f-i-n-i-t-esmiles on tumblr has made a [playlist](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/148802038820/like-my-father-but-bolder) for Frances Laurens in Come of Age In Our New Nation by Don Osservatore  
> \-----Puljusjarvi on tumblr has made a [playlist](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/148767762165/puljusjarvi-d-i-s-a-s-t-e-r-b-o-y-a) for Thomas Jefferson as seen in 177(6)  
> \-----Chaoticdrawings on tumblr has made some [fanart](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/148768297310/chaoticdrawings-a-drawing-based-off-this-post) [based](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/148768328435/chaoticdrawings-second-drawing-based-off-this) [on](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/148768373120/chaoticdrawings-part-3-of-this-post-by) one of our Aaron RPer's posts  
> Me News:  
> \-----I've written an [angsty soulmate lams au](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7741771)  
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


	14. And Like A Flame That Flickers Out Too Soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the fuck kind of name was Theodora? It was something she had always wondered, and never quite got the answer for. She knew that for whatever reason names were repeated or otherwise similar throughout lives, so it probably had to do with that; but if she had a nickle for every person who tried to call her Dora, she’d probably have enough to bribe them to not make a big deal out of her punching them in the face.

What the fuck kind of name was Theodora? It was something she had always wondered, and never quite got the answer for. She knew that for whatever reason names were repeated or otherwise similar throughout lives, so it probably had to do with that; but if she had a nickle for every person who tried to call her Dora, she’d probably have enough to bribe them to not make a big deal out of her punching them in the face.

She hated it when people called her Dora - it wasn’t her fucking name. Sure, she didn’t go around introducing herself as Theodora, but she wasn’t some cartoon either. Dori was much more respectable. 

Her parents used to call her Theo, but it had always rubbed her the wrong way - like they weren’t the ones who were allowed to call her that. She found the name Dori while reading The Hobbit, and decided that it was a good fit. It seemed new and foreign to her, it was something she had never been called before, and she liked that.

Dori had always been athletic. She did karate throughout the year, basketball in the winter, soccer in the spring, and played in a recreational field hockey league during the summer. She loved it. She loved being active, and she loved the friends she made. Unfortunately, being that active that often meant that you got injured sometimes.

It was during a basketball game, she had fallen funny on her ankle after making a shot. Her coach made her sit out the rest of the game, and afterwards her mom took her to the urgent care just to be safe. It ended up being sprained.

Even though her coach didn’t want her practicing and being on her feet too much for the next couple of days, she still went to practice. She would study or read while sitting and watching the other girls run through drills. One of those days, one of the girls ran quickly from the gym into the locker room with no explanation.

It ended up that she had some strain of a stomach flu. Spending that much time around the same people meant that colds and such often spread, and this was no different. Two days later Dori found herself waking up one morning puking into a toilet basin.

Dori didn’t get sick beyond the usual back-to-school cold that often, but whenever she did, her parents both flipped out. They made her call of school and spend the entire day in bed with no access to technology, and always made her go to the doctors if it lasted more than two days.

Dori had always thought they over-reacted, being sick was just a part of life.  
They didn’t seem to understand that though.

They didn’t understand why she was still single either, but that was a whole different argument. However, it was one that always seemed to come up when she was sick. Dori supposed it had to do with the fact that he mom always had her cornered in her bed, so she couldn’t really avoid the discussion. 

Her parents had been high-school sweethearts, in both this life and their previous ones. It really was super cute, especially as most people didn’t find their love in their next life. It would be a lot more cute though if they didn’t expect the same thing to happen to her.

She didn’t hold a lot of stock in the boys at her school, and she wasn’t necessarily interested enough in any of the girls to risk outing herself. Sure, some of them were absolutely gorgeous, but she wasn’t enamoured with anyone. 

Besides, looks weren’t everything. She needed someone she could to about anything and everything - an intellectual partnership - that’s what she wanted. 

It was just so hard to find. People were always a little hesitant to date someone who hadn’t had their revelation, as the chance always existed that they would one day remember and feel like they were betraying some past love. It was such a common story of heartbreak, and no one wanted to experience it for themselves. Kids were advised not to date until they remembered, or were old enough that the chances were very slim.

Dori hadn’t remembered yet, but she wasn’t that worried about it. It would happen when it happened. 

Which apparently seemed to be right now.

She had been searching for anything to drown out her mother’s inquiries and apparently that came in the form of memories - images of a man and a younger girl sitting at her bedside. She couldn’t remember their voices, but she knew that they were telling her about their days, and about how much they loved her and wished her to get better.

Aaron might have been taking her money, but that didn’t mean she appreciated his companionship any less - she got very good at conveniently forgetting that at certain points. It made life a little sweeter when betrayals like that weren’t considered. 

And oh, her darling Theodosia. Beautiful and intelligent - a force to be reckoned with that the world wasn’t ready for. She was going to do great things - had done great things, no doubt. 

Dori made a note to look more into her daughter’s life.

Her mother was angry now - apparently it wasn’t good manners to stare ahead unfocused while someone was speaking with you.

“Theodora Bercer, I am talking to you.”

“Mom, sorry, it’s just - I think I remembered.”

Her mom looked a little taken aback - and Dori couldn’t blame her, revelations tended to cause a greater reaction. 

“Not everything, but enough. I was married, with a daughter. Her name was Theodosia, my husband’s was Aaron. I think it must have been a very long time ago. Their clothes were the type you see in some of those period-dramas you like so much.”

Her mom smiled. She might not have made a big deal about it, but Dori knew she had been waiting for this day. 

“And do you think you’ve met this Aaron?”

Of course that was the first thing she focused on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 177(6) Verse News:  
> \-----Shakespearesocks on tumblr has drawn the [polysquad](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/148931287270/shakespearesocks-john-youd-better-not-move)!!!  
> \-----haetalie101 has written a 177(6) Verse Come of Age in our New Nation [fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7746895/chapters/17662795) about Frances Lewis  
> 


	15. And Peggy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy was not a patient person, and when soon enough was not in the next couple of days she was less than ecstatic. 
> 
> Well, apparently soon enough was now. Right now. In the middle of a game of dodgeball during gym class. Great timing, really.

Peggy had gotten sick of her sisters’ shared glances the past couple of years. She knew it had something to do with their revelations, yet they didn’t tell her much. The most she had ever gotten out of them was that she’d figure it out soon enough.

Peggy was not a patient person, and when soon enough was not in the next couple of days she was less than ecstatic. 

Well, apparently soon enough was now. Right now. In the middle of a game of dodgeball during gym class. Great timing, really.

What kind of revelation even was that? Oh, an object was thrown in my direction, time to remember running up some stairs while holding a baby and wearing a dress. Just what she needed. 

She wasn’t knocked out on the ground by her revelation or anything like Angel, so that was nice. Peggy was able to get right back in the game, with the thought that a red rubber ball was a lot less threatening than a tomahawk. 

Someone had thrown a hatchet at her once.

Why was that necessary?

Peggy was one-hundred percent convinced that her sisters had some weird voodoo powers, because right after she came home they pounced.

There was something very nice about knowing they had all been sisters before and somehow managed to stick together in this life. It was a little weird, but nice.

She still didn’t remember much, but apparently that one glimpse into her past was enough to convince her sisters to tell all, not that Peggy was complaining. 

It turned out that what she did remember happened because their father had been some super important dude in the continental army during the american revolution, and they decided it was a good idea to get into their house. They had all gone upstairs to hide, but they had forgotten a baby downstairs, and she, Margarita Schuyler, had gone and taken care of the situation like the bamf she was.

Nice. She had earned her leather jacket after all.

After that the memories came in gradually, as they did with most people. 

It was weird being able to put faces to the names. 

Especially Alexander. She had liked him before, considered him a brother. He’d been at her side when she died (and wasn’t that a bizarre experience, remembering your death). She’d been fond of him.

Her feelings now were very much different. That lying, cheating, gold digging, smarmy bastard never deserved to lay his eyes on Eliza, let alone any other part of his body. The very thought that they had shared space and air was enough to make her muscles tighten and prepare to pounce.

Fucking idiot, deserved the bullet Burr gave him and more.

If she ever came across him in person, may god grant mercy unto his soul. It’d take both of her sisters and an entire professional football team to hold her back. 

She missed Stephen. If Lizzie missed Alex the same way she missed Stephen she might let them get away with canoodling. Only after a very stern talking to, though. 

She wouldn’t date Stephen though. She was too gay for that. He’d be her best friend. They would bond over the shitty movies she was sure he’d like. There was a 99.99% chance he’d be into those terrible on purpose movies that are so bad they’re great like sharknado. He’d probably like Jaws too. 

Peggy had always looked forward to her revelation, but now she understood the sadness that was in so many people’s eyes.

Even those who had lived only the happiest and most peaceful of lives still had to mourn what they’d lost. Sure, you always heard those stories of the happy reunions of people from before - but it was rare. It always seemed to signal something was about to happen. You got too many people together from a certain place or time period, and they’d start to change the world around them - a sort of butterfly effect.

She missed Stephen, she missed her family, and she missed her children. 

None of her friends understood - her life before was too long gone. She was surrounded by the hippies of the 1960s. Everything they knew was still somewhat reachable - a discussion with a grandparents or an internet search away.

Peggy would have those days where nothing seemed familiar. She knew Lizzie and Angel did too, and it was them who provided her with an anchor. When nothing seemed to be going right she knew Lizzie would be the shoulder the cry on and Angel would be telling her just how to escape whatever situation she found herself in.

She didn’t know what she’d do without them, honestly. 

Everyone had their ways to vent, and Peggy had a lot of anger. She didn’t know exactly where it came from, but she personally believed that some part of her her was just too overwhelmed by everything and channeled all her emotions into that. Peggy wrote. 

Now, she knew that sounded super artistic and poetic, but Peggy didn’t write anything meaningful. She wrote fanfiction, but she wrote it well. It was a way to escape from her own anger, and she liked it. 

It was something she could cling to because there was nothing about writing about animated characters kissing that forced her to remember the days spent in a country not even a year old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 177(6) Verse News:  
> \-----Karysa_Hart has written a [fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7782889) based on an [ask](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/148980131880/how-do-all-the-couples-feel-about-kids-in-the-far) I answered on tumblr about the squad's future children  
> 


	16. The Precious Portrait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They each had to pick a different portrait, and a different artist’s style to imitate.
> 
> Dolley had always been in love with Gerard Stricher’s paintings, so that had been an easy decision - if she was going for it, she was going to go big. For the original portrait, she had chosen one of George Washington. She had always been drawn to it, though she had no idea why.

Dolley loved painting - it was one of the few hobbies she kept from her childhood. It reminded her of simpler times, and it allowed her to explore the depth of emotion humanity possesses. 

But painting for her didn’t register the same way it did with others. Her favorite thing to paint had always been still-lifes, and it had taken her a while to realize that she liked setting up the scene more than actually painting it.

Realism wasn’t her favorite thing to put onto canvas, a raw expression of her emotions was much more enjoyable for her. 

Her parents didn’t exactly agree with that, but were willing to encourage her to follow her dreams, and Dolley had always been thankful for that.

That didn’t mean they didn’t try to encourage her to focus more on her academics, with her art being a hobby. Her response to that had been to load up her schedule with as many art classes as she could while still meeting the credits required to graduate.

Her one teacher had been her favorite person ever, and after meeting him on the first day her freshman year, Dolley made the decision to work her schedule so that she had him at least once a day every semester. She had succeeded in that mission.

What made him so great was how he seemed to view art. He saw it as a way of self-expression, rather than an applied knowledge of color theory and anatomy. While those things were important, he believed that they weren’t what gave art the feeling that made people respond to it.

Dolley’s parents claimed he was too modern after their first parent-teacher conference, but that’s what Dolley loved about him. She was never going to become a famous artist known for getting viewers to cry at the sight of blue paint splattered onto a canvas - but she was able to take that idea and put it into her staging and photography.

She liked to think that’s what made her portraits special.

Her teacher had agreed with her.

Now, even as free-minded as he might have been, he still had to follow a curriculum of sorts. One of the things the painting course she had been taking with him needed to cover was a portrait done in a historical formal style. His take on that had been to ask his students to reproduce a historical portrait in the style of a not-realistic artist.

They each had to pick a different portrait, and a different artist’s style to imitate.

Dolley had always been in love with Gerard Stricher’s paintings, so that had been an easy decision - if she was going for it, she was going to go big. For the original portrait, she had chosen one of George Washington. She had always been drawn to it, though she had no idea why. 

They were given a week and a half to work on the painting in class, and it’s final due date was two weeks after that.

Dolley wanted to capture the movement and colors of Stricher, while keeping the seriousness of the original portrait. George Washington had never been the most open of men, so she couldn’t have the final product appear welcoming. One had to work to get under his harsh exterior - and not many could. He was rarely unkind, so the viewer couldn’t feel pushed away by the painting either. 

She needed it to exude strength and capability. But she needed the vibrancy of Stricher to actually follow the guidelines.

It was a difficult balance.

This is why she preferred photography. Lighting and the set were so much easier to change to suit the subject matter. A simple nudge could affect the mood, and you were able to catch every single adjustment on film in order to figure out just what the final product would need.

Paintings didn’t have that same step-by-step; you didn’t have the option to break it down. If you didn’t like the end result of a shoot, you could just flip through the photos taken throughout the thing and see if one managed to capture the image as seen in your mind. With painting you were stuck with the outer layer.

Dolley didn’t like it.

For whatever reason, when Dolley stared at the portrait of George Washington she thought of fire. 

And so that is how Dolores Todd turned a boring old almost-monochrome portrait into the beautiful colorful mess that currently graced the canvas in front of her. 

The blue background was toned down from Stricher’s usual sky blue shade, but over that she layered splatters and drips of bright oranges, deep reds, and the brightest of yellow. It was chaotic, and it spoke of destruction, but it was beautiful. That beautiful warm disaster was framing the deep navy and rose shapes in the center of the painting. 

She was proud of those shapes - if you looked at it from a distance while squinting, one could almost see it as the outline of the man in the original portrait, being encompassed by the flames around it on a background of a calm and clear pastel blue.

Any artists knows that the hours spent staring into a piece while working on it can change how you look at the rest of the world in a short time following.

Dolley’s experiences with that phenomenon went a bit deeper with this particular painting.

She turned down a hallway and she saw fire in the corner of her eyes. She felt herself running even though she was standing completely still.

Several people walked into her, but they were ignored.

She was experiencing a strange sort of double vision. There were lockers and tan tiles to her side one moment, and then she’d blink and there was burning wood and smoke flooding her vision. She looked down, and in her hands was the portrait she had spent her last class period finishing the modern take on.

Huh.

The bell rang, and she hurried to her class.


	17. My Dog Speaks More Eloquently Than Thee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was something different about this one though - a sense of having been there before, but much different. He couldn’t claim anything was familiar, because it wasn’t. The buildings weren’t those that he had stepped foot in all those years ago, and neither were the streets. But something rang in his being nonetheless.
> 
> Sam was confused and Sam was nervous, but Sam did was Sam did best and pushed it down and focused instead on appearing to his parents as if he was paying attention to what his tour guide was saying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS IN END NOTES

Samuel Seabury wasn’t certain of a great many things, but there were things he did believe to be true. 

Sam wasn’t stupid, and he knew that something wasn’t right about how his mother flinched whenever his father stepped into a room or raised his voice. When he asked his older brother about it, he was told to let their father handle it. Sam didn’t think that was the best course of action, but also wasn’t sure what else he could do. He agonized over his lack of action on a daily basis.

His older brother was set on the path to become a doctor of some kind at an early age. Sam’s parents had hoped for the same for him, but Sam’s brain wasn’t exactly geared towards the sciences. His parents told him that if he was really set on studying the humanities, he better get accepted into a prestigious university. He was ten years old when his parents told him this, and that pressure never faded. 

Sam had mixed feelings on how his parents’ conservative views affected his little sisters. On one hand, they didn’t have to deal with impossible expectations set upon them - they were free to enjoy life as it came, and explore the different opportunities presented. But they couldn’t enjoy them too much, if they were going to college it was for the sole purpose of finding a husband to provide for themselves and their future children.

Sam’s family was extremely patriotic - and not necessarily in a good way. They were the type of people that would tear into someone for not following an exact protocol when handling the flag. They were the type that preached that America was founded on traditional christian values and it should stay that way. The type of people that still blamed Britain for America’s problems.

The phrase “Bush did 9/11” would never be uttered in their home, but Sam wouldn’t be half-surprised if they managed to blame England. 

When his parents said they wanted him to attend a prestigious university, they didn’t mean a good university that was recognized academically and offered good scholarships - they meant one of the ivys. Of course, they were naive in that they truly believed that anyone could be accepted simply by having a 4.0 GPA and some extracurriculars on their resume. They didn’t think about the percentages of alumnae, minorities, international students, and those with moneyed backgrounds. They didn’t look at the maps of where the students were accepted from and realized it became a game of demographics - every student applying had the GPA and extracurriculars, and once they weeded out those who truly went above and beyond, there were thousands of faceless names. 

If Sam wasn’t being forced to tour the campuses against his will, he’d almost think his parents were supportive - after all, they were going out of their way to take him to visit schools he had almost no chance of ever attending.  
They were touring Yale, and listening to the usual stories about the history of the school and the vaguest description of how the academic system functioned and of certain events that took place on campus. It was the type of tour that let people know enough to remain interested in the school, but was still cold and distant in order to remind the visitors just how unlikely it was that they’d ever step foot on campus again.

The schools were all the same in that regard, and Sam was able to tune it out after the second one.

There was something different about this one though - a sense of having been there before, but much different. He couldn’t claim anything was familiar, because it wasn’t. The buildings weren’t those that he had stepped foot in all those years ago, and neither were the streets. But something rang in his being nonetheless.

Sam was confused and Sam was nervous, but Sam did was Sam did best and pushed it down and focused instead on appearing to his parents as if he was paying attention to what his tour guide was saying.

He went to sleep in his bed that night with nothing out of the ordinary on his mind, but he woke up with a tight feeling in his chest and odd thoughts at the forefront of his mind. He saw words flashing through his mind, and suddenly knew that he could give a sermon should he ever be asked. There were things he suddenly just knew: how to tie a cravat, that he had been a bishop, that he had attended Yale University in its beginning, and he had once traveled to London but was unable to complete what he had gone there for. 

The ball in his chest got tighter, and the ticking of the clock on the wall became overwhelming. He parents could already be heard shouting from the kitchen, and that too added to the sudden stress he was feeling. Sam’s breathes were echoing in his ears, and his hands were gripped in the sheets. He took a deep breath and to 100 and back down, eyes shut all the while. The ticking in his ears quieted - the yelling did not. 

A couple of week later, after getting back from visiting the final school in New Hampshire, his parents sat him down and asked for his opinion the first time he could remember. 

It was about which school he was going to attend - as if naming an institution guaranteed his acceptance. 

Sam didn’t really have an answer, but he told them Yale nonetheless. Of all the schools, that’s the one the he’d mind the least. The pretentiousness was far from absent, but it was much less prevalent. The campus had a happy air to it, and he had always been chasing that feeling of home since he realized it wasn’t something he knew.

His parents liked Yale the least - their tour guide had been open about being gay and finding his fellow classmates welcoming despite that. Sam knew that they were seeing his response as a sign of disrespect and defiance - two things they refused to have in any of their children. Sam was walking on thin ice, and he knew that what he said next would determine his place in his parents’ eyes.

When they asked him why, Sam did something he had never done before, he told the truth - and he went into detail. He let himself keep talking, not stopping and giving them the chance to speak up. The more time went by the heavier the weight on his shoulders became. His fate was about to be decided, and it was as terrifying as it was liberating.

He could honestly say he expected his father’s red face, and wasn’t terribly surprised by the fear in his mother’s gaze at her husband’s anger. What did shock him though was the pain as his father’s fist met his face as he exclaimed he couldn’t believe he helped to bring a fucking tory into the world.

Sam’s mother called him off sick for the rest of the week, and then taught him how to apply concealer to cover the bruise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: SAM HAS AN ANXIETY ATTACK, ALSO DOMESTIC VIOLENCE
> 
> 177(6) Verse News:  
> \-----ivy-does-art-sometimes on tumblr has created [moodboards](http://kookookarli.tumblr.com/post/149198874865/ivy-does-art-sometimes-some-moodboards-for-20) for the 2.0 squad from Come of Age in our New Nation  
> Me News:  
> \-----I've started a [lams wingfic soulmate au](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7808983/chapters/17819914), so if you're interested :-)  
> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


	18. The Greater Part Of Our Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha had always been a smart girl. 
> 
> She knew a lot of things, but she didn’t know who she was before, and that irritated her.

Martha had always been a smart girl. 

She knew a lot of things, but she didn’t know who she was before, and that irritated her. 

Everyone around her seemed to know - they always spoke about how it was so funny to see things they remembered as being brand new faded to obscurity. At sleepovers, her friends would always talk about the things they had done with husbands and boyfriends in their previous lives. Sure, they might not have done anything this time, but they remembered.

Martha always wanted to be a part of those conversations - to feel included. She had a lot of friends, and she knew she was well-liked, but it still hurt to not be able to contribute to the conversations. She felt like she should have been leading them, but she was unable to.

She was always comfortable gathering people together and directing the conversation - socializing came natural to her, and her parents had told her that it was a very useful skill to have. Martha was sure that some of it was part of who she was as a person, but she really wanted it to be a skill she had learned before that had carried on. Something to connect her to her past.

The years went by. She didn’t know who she was in high school, and she didn’t know who she was in college. She really hoped she wasn’t a new soul - not that there was anything wrong with that, but Martha didn’t want to have to deal with the struggle of actually finding herself.

It was so much easier when you remembered going on that journey, and then only had to revisit it when deemed necessary.

But Martha didn’t know who she was before and she doesn’t know who she is now.

She’s making her way in the world, crawling up the corporate ladder. It doesn’t seem to fit, and even though she has plenty of casual acquaintances, there are too many people who are weirded out by the idea of knowing someone who’s still so young. 

Martha felt empty though - and it wasn’t just not remembering. She was going through the motions of being successful, and she showed all the outward signs, but she didn’t feel it. Something just seemed so wrong in the world, and she felt like she needed to be forgiven for something. She lived a decent life, by most standards, so she had no idea where that feeling was coming from.

She wasn’t sure she entirely wanted to know, so for the first time in her life, Martha didn’t question it.

She wasn’t sure she could handle the emptiness though. Walking into your job knowing everyday the only thing you were looking forward to was leaving was terrible.

And so she quit. And as she was walking out the door of her office, box full of the contents of her desk in hand, she walked straight into someone. A very attractive someone.

A very attractive someone who she had definitely never met before, but something about their eyes were familiar. He apparently recognized her, because his first words were her name and an invitation to grab coffee.

Martha accepted, weirded out though she was, because she felt she could trust this man. This wasn’t a feeling she had experienced before, and she wasn’t sure she liked it, but something told her she’d walk through fire for him.

If Martha was interested in men, she’d say she had just found her soul mate. 

Turns out she had just found her husband, from her life that she didn’t remember. 

But all of a sudden she knew who she had been. She didn’t remember, but the name Martha Washington had once belonged to her. She had a name, and she had someone who she had once loved. Someone who she might not be able to love again, but someone she could trust and talk to. She had a support system of one-person, and judging by his grin, it was the best support system she could have asked for.

They didn’t discuss their past, but rather their present. Apparently George had remembered late too.

After coffee, they exchanged phone numbers and a promise to keep in touch.

Martha wasn’t super determined to keep that promise, but she was filled with a certain energy. She dumped the box of office supplies in the nearest trashcan, and walked away.

She was going to make a difference, and she was going to do it through the people. Martha didn’t know her goal, and she didn’t have connections, but she had determination. She was going to make something out of herself. Her parents might be disappointed she wasn’t making a six-figure salary and she was still single, but she would no longer be disappointed in herself.

Martha knew she didn’t have to be defined by who she once was. George was going to grad school for history of all things - if he was allowed to ignore the political sphere, she was allowed to focus on her own wants and desires. 

She wanted people to listen to her, and she wanted to yell at someone. Perhaps that odd resentment she had always held deep within had been because she had lived an entire lifetime not being considered a person. Maybe she was meant to be a feminist. 

Equal rights didn’t seem so bad.

Maybe this was the sort of bone-deep sense and knowledge all those philosophers talked about when they thought about reincarnation. She had been a socialite, and a damn good one, that was a skill she could use. She didn’t have the money or the title, but damn if she didn’t have a pretty face - something that was useful no matter the profession.

Over the next few years she dabbled. She gave speeches, she wrote articles, and she spoke up. She wasn’t always heard, but that didn’t stop her. She made a living working as a barista in a coffee shop and selling embroidered curse words on etsy. She lived modestly, but she was free.

She remembered some things, never enough to ruin her delusion of living a new life though, and for that she was grateful.

Martha kept in contact with George - they’d occasionally meet up in a bookstore and update the other on their lives, and he called her regularly. He remembered most things, and occasionally he’d fall in the old habit of complaining to her about his day. Martha didn’t mind.

That didn’t mean she was not surprised when he asked her to be his Vice President.

She was even more surprised when she said yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martha's was interesting to write - and I felt that this was a nice opportunity to wrap this into the series more :-)
> 
> 177(6) Verse News:  
> \-----Flora_Obsidian has written an [absolutely wonderful take](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7817755) on "Yes We Get It, You're A Patriot" from the squad's point of views !!!  
> \-----Emmiimmeme has written a crack 177(6)/Doctor Who [crossover](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7823053) lol  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> It's been so long since I've written anything before I started the group chat thing, so who knows where this will go.
> 
> Tell me what you think! :)


End file.
